After a long night out with my little brother, I sent him off with a reminder of what the League had trained us to do. That kid has sharpened up. More mature than the scrappy boy I remembered sparring with under the League's suffocating walls.
Maybe time with Bruce has rubbed off on him. Or maybe it's just the years—growing older, living with his father, and learning to carry himself with that arrogant calm Wayne blood seems to breed. Whatever it is, Damian isn't the same boy I used to know. He's grown. A bit.
As for me? I'm not in Gotham tonight. I'm perched on a ferris wheel at a pre-Halloween carnival in Metropolis, milkshake in hand, sipping through a plastic straw while a pair of binoculars hangs snug against my eyes.
From up here, the carnival looks like a scatter of painted lights bleeding into the night air, the scent of fried dough and roasted peanuts rising with the laughter of families and teenagers hopped up on sugar. Below me, kids scream on roller coasters, parents herd toddlers through the crowd, and the air feels almost too cheerful for a man like me to sit in.
But my eyes aren't on the rides or the families. My sight is fixed on one family in particular—a man and his six-year-old son.
The man? None other than John Stuart, the Mayor of Gotham City.
So why is the Red Hood, of all people, sitting in another city, playing voyeur on a father-son bonding moment like some creep with a straw in his mouth? Simple. John Stuart is a man with actual political power, the kind of man whose strings, if pulled hard enough, could bend certain things my way. A mayor with weaknesses is a mayor I can use.
"Hey dude, this was your fift ride." The wheel operator broke my focus as the ferris wheel slowed to a stop, my cart rocking slightly. His hands were shoved in his vest pockets, his expression already annoyed. "So… just fill up again and hit the button for the sixth one, yeah?"
"There are kids who want to ride," he pressed.
"Like I care," I muttered, sliding off the cart, not even sparing him a glance. My target was moving again anyway.
The crowd didn't make it subtle. Parents threw me a mix of cautious stares, protective and suspicious, while kids whispered like I was some freak that didn't belong here. Teenagers stared longer, half curious, half put off.
These people—these normal fuckers—don't even realize how lucky they are. They get to live their plain little lives. Safe. Sheltered. With family outings to carnivals, sugar highs, and rides on ferris wheels that end with warm smiles. They get to grow up normal.
Well, that's the reason we fight crimes. So these families could live a normal life and not have to suffer lose of a family member due to criminal or villaineous activity.
Sure, sometimes I envy them. But truth is, I don't regret what I am. My life is brutal, sure, but it's mine. It's fun, intense, and—between the occasional pull of bloodlust and the endless weight of vengeance—I'm free in ways they'll never understand.
My attention slid back to the mayor. John was playing carnival games with his son, tossing rings and shooting fake rifles, his politician's smile softened by genuine affection for the kid. Cute. But not everyone hanging around was there for cotton candy and family fun.
I'd clocked them as soon as I sat down for the stakeout—men dressed like civilians, blending into the crowd, but walking patterns around the father and son. Security detail. Not official. Too quiet. Their eyes never strayed from their mark.
I'd been digging for dirt on John for weeks now. Broke into his office, flipped through notes, hacked into files—nothing. All I found was a reminder about this little father-son outing. But there was a silver lining, a reason I dragged myself out to Metropolis in the first place.
John had an unofficial meeting scheduled with the Mayor of Metropolis. Which begged the question—what the hell could they need to discuss here, hidden behind balloons and carnival games, instead of some closed chamber in a government building?
And just as I asked myself that, here came the answer.
The Mayor of Metropolis arrived, dressed like he belonged here, shaking John's hand with a warm smile before John sent his son off into the carnival with a gentle pat. Their security closed in subtly, giving them space, but their eyes stayed sharp.
I decided to blend into the stream of people. Bought myself a stick of cotton candy. Had nothing to do with the mission. I just like cotton candy. I let the sugar melt on my tongue while watching them head toward the pier, away from the noise.
Propping myself against a railing, I set up a minimalistic directional mic, hidden well enough to avoid drawing eyes, and pointed it toward their little private talk. Recorder running. I leaned back and listened.
And let me tell you—if boredom could kill, I'd have been a corpse on the pier. Twenty minutes of droning about policies, voters, tax reforms. The kind of chatter that would make even politicians yawn. Then, finally, things started to heat up.
"Luthor's been on my ass," the Metropolis mayor grumbled. "You're lucky you're in Gotham where he doesn't need something from you too often."
"I'm grateful for that every day," John replied, his voice edged with sincerity. "He terrifies me."
"Of course he does. Man's a genius, but he's insane. Everyone's too terrified to stand up to him."
"Don't even think about standing up to him," John shot back, a warning in his tone. "We both have families. Not even the military could protect us from what that lunatic might do if we cross him."
"Yeah," the Metropolis mayor sighed. "The moment we shook his hand and took his deals, he owned us. Us and other politicians across the country."
The conversation stretched on for nearly another hour. Half the time they drifted into coded words I couldn't fully decipher. Whatever those words meant, they weren't meant for others to understand their purpose. Eventually, they wrapped things up and filtered back into the carnival crowd. John collected his son, their night resuming as if nothing had been whispered behind closed lips of the pier.
And me? I was left with scraps.
Sure, I'd learned that both mayors were tangled in Lex Luthor's web, but that alone wasn't enough. Not the kind of leverage I needed to blackmail John into bending to my will. I didn't just want dirt. I needed a scandal—something that would leave him begging me not to spill.
Time was against me. Black Mask was already frothing at the mouth back in Gotham, wondering why I'd gone dark on him. But I had one last shot at pulling something useful.
The upcoming Gotham Halloween charity event.
Anyone who was anyone in Gotham—politicians, the wealthy, the power brokers—would be there. They'd drink too much, let their masks and guards slip. Something useful might spill.
Me at a party though? That was the strange part. I could barely remember the last one I went to. Been years since I celebrated Halloween, and even then, the memory was faint and bloodstained. Maybe this year I'd make an appearance. Mask and all. After all, it is supposed to be a costume party.
- - -
The Batcave was quiet that night, with a kind of silence that wasn't empty but charged—filled with the constant hum of computers and the faint dripping of water echoing from the stalactites above.
Screens glowed across the dark expanse, throwing cold blue light against stone walls and steel platforms. Bruce stood at the central console, posture rigid, his eyes focused on the monitor but his voice carrying enough weight to command the attention of the two young men standing nearby.
"It's been a couple weeks and still no sign of the Red Hood," Bruce began, his voice low, steady, but with that underlying tension he always carried when Jason's name came up. "Only an incident at a bar, one that left more than a handful of bodies and several badly injured. Reports say the Red Hood was the assailant… allegedly."
Damian and Dick stood on either side of him, the glow of the screens painting sharp lines across their faces. Everyone knew this wasn't just about crime or tactics.
"He's been off the grid since that bounty was put on his head," Dick said, leaning against the railing and rubbing at his jaw with thought. His tone carried curiosity but also an unease he wasn't trying to hide. "So why act out now?"
"That's the million-dollar question," Bruce replied without missing a beat. His voice was calm, but his expression remained tight, jaw clenched.
Damian, meanwhile, stayed quiet. The boy stood with his arms loosely crossed, eyes lowered just enough to avoid meeting Bruce's. He looked detached, uninterested even, though beneath that mask of composure he was replaying the events of that night—remembering exactly what he'd seen when he'd been with Jason. He knew more than he was letting on.
"Maybe, like everything else he's done, this is just another statement," Dick offered, pushing himself upright with his arms folded. "Saying he's not scared. That a price on his head isn't enough to make him lay low."
Bruce exhaled slowly, still studying the data scrolling across the monitors. "That's possible," he admitted. "But Jason's mind… it's not something we can pin down easily right now." His gaze flickered toward Damian, sharp and searching. "You're unusually quiet. Care to share what's on your mind?"
Damian's expression was unreadable as he met Bruce's stare. "Nothing at all," he answered evenly, voice calm in that measured, almost disinterested way he used when hiding something. "Only that the Jason I knew never acted without orders. At least, not when he served under my grandfather."
Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly but he said nothing. Dick, however, tilted his head. "He'll slip up eventually," he added, trying to lighten the weight in the room. "They always do."
"And when he does?" Damian's tone sharpened slightly. "What's the plan then? Do we arrest him?"
The words landed heavier than expected. Dick's brows shot up, and his gaze immediately shifted to Bruce, silently asking the same thing. He wanted answers too.
"I don't know," Bruce admitted after a long pause, voice quieter this time. "But I need to talk to him. Face to face. Only then will I know what to do."
Dick frowned. "What do you mean?"
Bruce shifted his weight, as he stepped closer to the console. "We don't know if he's acting on his own or if this is residue of Ra's al Ghul's programming from his time with the League. Or maybe… the Lazarus Pit warped his mind further than we thought. It changes people. It can confuse them, pull them away from who they were."
Dick shook his head, letting out a quiet scoff. "You're making it sound like some kind of phase. You know Jason—he's always been headstrong, always believed there was a better way to deal with Gotham's filth. Sending killers to prison never made sense to him. He thought it was pointless."
Damian's sharp eyes studied the floor, his thoughts pulling him between both sides. Dick wasn't wrong. Neither was his father. But who was Jason Todd now? The lost boy who came back twisted, or the man chasing some secret goal no one could see but him?
"Maybe his actions tie back to his death," Damian suggested finally, his voice quieter, tinged with a rare hesitation. "Grandfather resurrected him, gave him power. Maybe Jason sees this as his chance to correct what he couldn't before."
Bruce didn't answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the glowing screens, his reflection dimly staring back. "I've considered that," he said finally. "But he hasn't gone after the Joker. Not yet. Instead, he's targeting crime itself. He's trying to position himself as a crime lord—building power, influence. Starting small. Testing the waters."
Dick pushed his hands into his pockets, shaking his head. "If that's really what he's after, we'd be fools to think that's all there is. Jason always has more in mind."
"Whatever his endgame, we'll know eventually," Bruce said, his tone carrying that finality that closed discussions. He turned from the console and adjusted his cufflinks. "That's enough for tonight. I'm heading out."
Damian's eyes narrowed instantly, noticing something off. "And where exactly are you going, father? In a suit. At this time of night."
Bruce paused, glancing between his sons with the faintest flicker of hesitation before turning toward Alfred. The butler appeared with a scarf, draping it carefully around Bruce's neck, adjusting it neatly along the lines of his tailored suit. Bruce cleared his throat. "To a Halloween charity event. Hosted by the mayor."
Dick raised his brows and squinted with suspicion, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Uh-huh. You're not fooling me. You're going on a date, aren't you?"
"I said it's a charity event," Bruce replied in his defense, tone clipped.
"Sure," Dick drawled, folding his arms and leaning back against the console. "You can lie to the kid, but you can't fool me."
Bruce sighed, already regretting saying anything. "Fine. Yes. I'll be attending the event with a date."
"I knew it," Dick said with triumph, his grin widening.
Bruce's brow furrowed. "And how exactly did you figure that out?"
"Easy," Dick said, cutting him off before he could finish. "You only wear that particular cologne when you're going out with a woman."
Bruce shot him a flat glare, one that all but said, this brat knows me too well.
"A date? Who is she?" Damian asked, voice edged with suspicion.
Bruce adjusted his cufflinks, his answer calm but simple. "Her name is Selina."
Damian's brow arched higher.
"Catwoman?" Dick asked, though his tone carried more amusement than shock.
"Yes," Bruce said without hesitation. "Catwoman." He started for the stairs leading up to the manor.
Damian immediately followed. "You're romantically involved with a criminal?"
"Ex-criminal," Bruce corrected firmly. "And it's only a date."
Dick trailed after them, grinning ear to ear. "You know, I get it. This whole mission of ours is lonely as hell. If Selina makes things… less lonely, then hey, maybe it's worth it."
Damian, however, wasn't done. "But father, there are no 'ex-criminals.' Only those who aren't committing crimes at this moment."
Bruce tightened his jaw, refusing to give ground. "She isn't like that anymore."
At the top of the steps, Alfred stood waiting with a full-body mirror he had prepared. Bruce stopped in front of it, reviewing his look one last time, straightening his jacket and tie.
Behind him, Dick wore the kind of expression that screamed he was enjoying every second of this. Bruce glanced his way. "Don't you have something better to do?"
"Nope," Dick answered simply, his smug grin still plastered across his face. "Though I can't help but think… maybe Selina likes you because you're basically the same person. Both Batman and Bruce Wayne."
Bruce narrowed his eyes but didn't respond. Alfred interrupted smoothly, "The flowers are in the car, sir."
As Alfred escorted Bruce outside toward the waiting vehicle, Damian quickened his pace beside him, his voice crisp with disapproval. "I feel the need to remind you of your past choices in women, including—though not limited to—my mother. Not that I am ungrateful, of course. But I insist you use protection and be mindful of your drink—"
"I get it, Damian," Bruce cut in, cutting off the boy's lecture before it could spiral into another tirade.
Dick snickered from behind, calling out, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Bruce slid into the car, Alfred closing the door after him. Through the window, Bruce caught sight of Dick's ever-present smirk as Damian muttered, "We should follow him. Make sure she doesn't try to take advantage of him when his guard is down."
"I strongly advise against it, Master Damian," Alfred said as he began up the manor steps.
"Bruce is more than capable of handling himself when it comes to women," Dick added, strolling back into the manor with his trademark grin.
Damian scowled. "It's Halloween. Shouldn't you be trick-or-treating?" Dick asked as he turned toward the Batcave again, probably preparing for patrol.
Damian gave him a sharp side glance. "Only children with no sense of purpose indulge in such mindless quests for candy."
Dick froze, his grin fading into mock offense as he stared at the boy. He didn't respond, but the look he gave Damian said everything—like the kid had just insulted every childhood memory Dick ever had of trying to feel normal.